


Your Flag on the Marble Arch

by Mount_Seleya



Series: The Book of the Mother [4]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Forced Marriage, Forgiveness, Not Beta Read, Older Woman/Younger Man, POV Jon Snow, Post-Season Six, Referenced Past Rape/Non-con, Showverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8584492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mount_Seleya/pseuds/Mount_Seleya
Summary: Jon is determined to take his wife and children north no matter how it impacts his political position or his heart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> First rule of NaNoWriMo: it's better to chase plot bunnies down the rabbit hole and have something to show for it in the end than to focus on what one is "supposed" to be writing and crash into a creative wall.
> 
> Title from the song "Hallelujah" by (our recently-departed Canadian national treasure) Leonard Cohen.

Wan sunlight spilled into the council chamber through the high open windows lining the red stone walls. It was winter, Jon knew, even if there was as yet no bite in the breeze blowing into the room and stirring the loose curls below his hastily-tied bun. The cold would creep this far south in time, bringing the dead with it, and by then it would be too late.  
  
"How are my little niece and nephew?" asked Daenerys from the high-backed chair at the head of the table.  
  
"Hale and hearty, Your Grace," answered the aged maester seated beside Varys. "The princess, especially, is thriving. I've never seen a babe grow so fast in all my years. I understand she is to be your heir?"  
  
"She is the firstborn of the two." The Queen's gaze swivelled around to look at Jon. "Is that not so, Prince Aegon?"  
  
Jon shifted in his chair. The unfamiliar name pricked at his pride. "Aye," he said simply. _Like her mother before her_.  
  
"It will please Your Grace to know I have found a suitable nurse," Varys announced, his voice as smooth as silk.  
  
Dread unfurled in Jon's gut. He swallowed, drew a sharp, staccato breath. " _No_ ," he said, barely more than a whisper.  
  
"Jon," came Tyrion's voice through the fog of panic. It was soft. Almost sympathetic. "You know it must be done."  
  
"She's my _wife!_ The mother of my _children!_ " Jon roared. His right hand balled into a fist on the table, nails digging so hard into the meat of his palm that he dimly feared they might pierce the supple, black kid leather of his gloves.  
  
"Cersei Lannister has snuffed out countless lives. She murdered my son and grandchildren. You'd have her go unpunished?" demanded Lady Olenna.  
  
"Imprison her in the Maidenvault," Jon replied, meeting the steel of Lady Olenna's gaze unflinchingly.  
  
The elderly woman's lips stretched into a pitying shadow of smile. "You love her, don't you, you idiot boy?"  
  
Jon sucked in a hiss of air. "I know what it's like to grow up motherless," he said tightly.  
  
"So does she," said Tyrion, his voice filled with a quiet weight.  
  
"Do you think your cousin will simply welcome Cersei Lannister into Winterfell as her bosom sister after all she suffered at the hands of the wretched woman and her beastly son?" challenged Lady Olenna.  
  
"No, and I'd never ask that of her," Jon replied, heart twisting in his chest. "But I pledged myself to Cersei Lannister in the sight of gods and men. She is my wife, and I am her husband. I cannot simply cast aside my vow."  
  
"I hear your pain, my prince, and I do sympathize with it." The practiced calm of Varys's voice turned Jon's stomach. "But the people have suffered greatly under Lannister rule. Justice must be done for the good of the realm."  
  
"Winter is upon us, and the dead come with it," countered Jon. "We cannot keep warring amongst ourselves."  
  
The Queen's gaze settled on Jon, her eyes burning with an intense, unquenchable inner fire. "For too long, the wheel of power has turned in this land, one house rising as another falls, crushing all who stand in their path." There was a strength pulsing beneath the words, an iron-hard sincerity of conviction, and Jon found himself impressed by its force. "I will break the wheel, nephew. I will end the cycle of misery and grief. And I will do so by bringing justice."  
  
"You mistake vengeance for justice," Jon said, quietly adamant. "So long as blood demands blood, the wheel turns on."  
  
"Where was mercy when our house was overthrown? When your sister and infant brother were slaughtered?"  
  
"House Targaryen fell because Robert Baratheon willed it. Because Tywin Lannister and his army sacked the capital. Cersei Lannister played no part in House Targaryen's ruin save marrying Robert when her father commanded it."  
  
"What of House Stark? Have you no wish to avenge your uncle? Your cousin Robb?" Daenerys pressed.  
  
"They were avenged when I retook Winterfell with my sister, Your Grace," Jon responded.  
  
The Queen was silent for a long moment. Her mouth compressed into a taut line. Then, smoothing the uncertainty from her face and straightening her spine, she declared, "Cersei Lannister will be executed in a fortnight."  
  
Jon's chair screeched against the marble floor as he sprung to his feet. "I beg your leave, _Your Grace_ ," he snarled. He didn't wait for the Queen to answer. Just balled his hands into fists and stormed out of the council chamber.

 

* * *

  
  
Jon strode briskly into the high-vaulted solar, the grim-faced guards shutting the heavy, iron-girded door behind him. The dark outline on the balcony at the far end of the room did not turn to greet him. He stood a moment, admiring the way the setting sun limned her crimson dress in orange, tinted the wind-whipped wisps of her ear-length hair pink.  
  
Pulling off his gloves, he walked to the centre of the chamber, tossed them down on the table next to the cradle. Joanna was awake, her mouth curved into a tiny, perfect pout as her little fist grasped at the empty space beside her. She gave a mewling whine as Jon scooped her into his arms and tucked her chin into the crook of his shoulder.  
  
Cersei's gaze swung around to look at Jon as he came to stand beside her on the sunset-drenched balcony. Her eyes were keen and glinting above the innocent repose of the babe drooling onto a kerchief on her shoulder. "When?" she asked simply, her voice nearly lost over the crash of waves and the cry of gulls far below.  
  
"A fortnight from today," Jon answered, the words seeming to catch in his throat.  
  
A huff of sound escaped Cersei, part-laugh and part-hum, and she jerked her eyes away from Jon. The fullness of her lips arced into that tight, haughty smile he'd come to know well, the one that could mean either cruelty or hurt.  
  
"I asked that you be spared," Jon said, turning to watch the red light of sunset dance upon the sea.  
  
"Will you plead for my life even as the axe falls, Snow? Of course you will. Honour before sense is the Stark way."  
  
"Do you want me to hate you, Cersei? Would it be easier for you if I did?" Jon snapped.  
  
Green eyes pinned Jon as the sun sank behind the western hills. "I want my children to be safe – no matter the cost."  
  
"You needn't pay such a terrible price," Jon insisted, his eyes meeting those of his wife once more. Joanna batted restlessly at his jaw, pinched a few bristles of his beard between her fingers and gave a tiny, experimental tug. Cupping the back of her head, he rocked her up and down gently, until she released a high, burbling squeal.  
  
Cersei's mouth quirked into a smile at the sight. Then she spun and walked back into the solar. Jon followed after her, watching as she lowered their still-sleeping son into the cradle, pulled the blankets tighter around him.  
  
"I'll find a way to sway Daenerys," Jon vowed as he carefully laid Joanna beside her brother.  
  
"You can try," Cersei rejoined smoothly.  
  
_You know nothing_. _You can try_. Words that would echo in the beating of his fool's heart until his dying day.  
  
"What if you were with child?" Jon suggested. "She'd spare you for that, wouldn't she?"  
  
"For nine moons," Cersei said, the droll bite of her voice undercut by a kind of quiet resignation.  
  
"Aye, but–"  
  
"I am nearing the time of my wilting. Even if, by some miracle, your seed takes, there won't be time to know."  
  
Jon dropped into one of the two chairs at the table with a heavy sigh. He scrubbed his hand across his mouth. Cold, churning dread crept from his gut to his heart, constricting his throat and bringing tears to the corners of his eyes.  
  
Cersei drifted over to the nearby sideboard and poured herself a large glass of Dornish red from the crystal carafe. "Tell me, Snow, how did you expect this to end?" she inquired, turning to lean back against the cabinet.  
  
A single tear carved a wet track down Jon's cheek. He was long past the point of caring if Cersei saw his vulnerability. She was one of the few people within the Red Keep who called him by the name he'd been known his whole life, still treated him as Ned Stark's son, and whether it was respect or insult, he cleaved to it all the same.  
  
"Not like this," Jon admitted quietly, holding the sharp press of his wife's gaze.  
  
Cersei merely laughed, her lips twitching up into a mirthless not-smile, then raised her glass and took a sip.  
  
Silence reigned between them for a small eternity. At last, Cersei came to hover beside the cradle, wine in hand. Something in her expression seemed to crack as she looked down at the slumbering faces of Joanna and Damon. "I've but a single move left in the game," she said softly. "Let me play it, Snow, for our children's sake."  
  
"Cersei..." Jon faltered, reaching to clasp her free hand.  
  
"Shut up," Cersei hissed, swatting Jon's hand away. "Spare me your insufferable pity for one night." Setting her wine down on the table, she straddled his lap where he sat, her hands diving to undo the laces of his breeches.  
  
"My _pity_ ," Jon snarled, catching her wrists, "is the only reason you draw breath."  
  
Lips curling into a smirk, Cersei leant forward, nuzzling into his neck. "Then remind me I'm alive, Jon Snow."  
  
Jon let her wrists slip out of his grasp. She pulled his cock free of his smallclothes a moment later. " _Slower_ ," he grit out when she began to stroke him roughly, and he groaned and bucked up off of the chair as she obliged.  
  
Rucking her red velvet skirt up to her waist, Jon snuck his right hand between her thighs, cupped her sex. A gasp ghosted across his ear as he dipped his middle finger between her slick folds and flicked it over her pearl.  
  
"Yes," Cersei breathed, gripping the loose curls at the nape of his neck. "Inside me, Snow, _now_."  
  
He clutched her hips as she sank down onto his cock urgently. "Easy," he murmured, holding her still. Burying his face in the lee of her shoulder, he mouthed at the warm, tender spot where her pulse throbbed fast and wild. This was the first time they had ever truly made love, and it might very well be the last, so he intended to savour it.  
  
At last, Cersei grew impatient and ground down against Jon, wrenching a growling moan from his throat. He tightened his grip on her hips and rocked up into her, establishing a slow, gentle rhythm between them.  
  
Cersei claimed Jon's lips in a hungry kiss as she rode him. The faint taste of wine washed across his tongue. Her teeth fixed upon his lower lip, and he groaned into her mouth, his hands breaking from her hips to slide up her back.  
  
After a time, she tore her mouth away from his and panted into his ear, "I need _more_. Give me more." Changing the angle of her hips, she brought herself down on him hard, moaning, her fingers clutching at the back of his head. His hands stole beneath her bunched-up skirts, gripping her arse as he snapped up into her, fast and deep.  
  
Her head tipped back, exposing the long, pale swoop of her throat and the sweat glistening in the hollow at its base. "Yes, yes, like that, _just like that_ ," she purred, slamming down onto him as he surged up to meet her. He growled, low and feral, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in his loins with every gasping, bitten-off cry that spilled from her lips.  
  
She peaked with a shout, her whole body convulsing, and he tumbled after, groaning as he spent inside of her.

 

* * *

  
  
The stern timbre of Cersei's voice dragged Jon out of the black embrace of sleep. His eyes cracked open on an irritated sound, half-yawn and half-groan, and he rolled onto his back, the bedcovers rasping against his bare skin. He was tired and sore and wrung out. Stale sweat hung thick in the air; he hadn't known lovemaking had a _smell_. "I don't have another go in me," he croaked, throwing his forearm over his eyes sheepishly.  
  
"Good," came a soft, mordant male voice. "We haven't a minute to spare, my prince."  
  
Jon bolted upright off of the mattress, clutching the rumpled linens to his chest, his cheeks blazing. Varys was standing at the side of the bed with Tyrion Lannister, a torch held aloft in his pale, manicured hand.  
  
"What are you doing here? These are our private chambers!" Jon spluttered.  
  
"Committing treason, obviously," Tyrion rejoined, his thin lips curling up into a wry little smirk.  
  
A warm grip closed around Jon's upper arm and gave it a firm squeeze. "Get dressed, Snow," Cersei said simply. Then she slid off of the bed, making the mattress judder and wobble, and slinked over to her chest.  
  
With an indignant huff, Jon gathered the sheets about his waist, clambered off of the bed in an awkward tangle.  
  
"You've seen me piss off the Wall, Snow," Tyrion said, an edge of irritation entering his otherwise calm, quiet voice. "Your wife once marched through this city naked as her nameday. Now isn't the time for fits of modesty."  
  
"I think he rather enjoys playing the maid, brother," Cersei drawled, the barest trace of fondness in her voice.  
  
Jon said nothing, just clenched his jaw and threw open the lid of his trunk with a loud, petulant _thunk_.  
  
A short time later, Jon smoothed the front of his tunic and turned, meeting Cersei's gaze across the width of their bed. She had on a silver fox-trimmed cloak and the austere black leather gown he hadn't seen her wear since her reign. The black cloak that Sansa had made for him so many moons ago hung around his own shoulders. _We're going north_ , he thought, his heart seeming to strain against his ribs as a swell of elation overtook him.  
  
Cersei shuffled over to the cradle as Jon tied his hair back. Setting the small, golden casket dangling from her fingers by its handle on the adjacent table momentarily, she picked up Damon and fit him against her shoulder. Jon swept Joanna into his arms in turn, his palm moulding around her little head and its thick, black riot of curls.  
  
Varys lead them out of their chambers and down a long series of corridors, until they reached a dark, narrow stairway. The air became progressively colder and danker as they silently descended the twisting coil of stairs.  
  
"It was my understanding you were both set upon my death," Cersei said at last, her tone almost conversational.  
  
"I want only what is best for the Seven Kingdoms," answered Varys, slightly winded. "It would not do to irreparably rupture the Queen's relationship with the prince so soon after peace has finally come to the realm."  
  
"And you, Tyrion?" asked Cersei, a false lightness in her voice. "Pray tell what inspired your change of heart."  
  
"If you think I'm doing this for your benefit, you are _gravely_ mistaken," Tyrion responded.  
  
A blast of chill salt air assailed Jon's lungs some time later. The stairs ended abruptly in a door that opened onto a slick, sea-whipped tongue of rock, at the edge of which was moored a rowboat, its hull bobbing on the waves. Hooking his free arm around Cersei's elbow, Jon guided her out onto the spit, step by slow, careful step. When they reached the rowboat, the leather-faced boatman rose, plucking the golden casket out of Cersei's hand.  
  
"Consider whatever debt I have ever owed you paid," Tyrion told Cersei as Jon helped her into the rowboat.  
  
Cersei skewered Tyrion with a brutal look. "Nothing can repay the life of my son."  
  
The roar of the sea rushed in to fill the gulf of silence that broke open between brother and sister. Jon stepped into the boat and sat opposite his wife, clasping their daughter to his chest, her fat little limbs stirring in slumber.  
  
"I didn't kill Joffrey," Tyrion finally said.  
  
"And Father?" Cersei pressed.  
  
"Would have seen you wedded to a man half your age. A fate, as you proved, you would do anything to escape. Another of life's little ironies, isn't it, that you should find salvation in the very thing you thought would be your ruin?"  
  
"I didn't ask you to save me," Cersei said, the sea wind catching her short locks and lashing them against her cheeks.  
  
"No, but Jon Snow did," Tyrion returned.  
  
Silence fell once more as the boatman worked to untie the rope tethering his craft to a jagged stone outcropping. Jon's cloak snapped against his shoulders. He locked eyes with Tyrion and an understanding passed between them.  
  
"I don't expect the Queen will be pleased with our flight," Jon remarked as the boatman took up the oars.  
  
"She can be persuaded to see sense." Tyrion flashed a small, cautious smile. "Give my regards to Lady Sansa."  
  
The oars dipped into the roiling black sea with a quiet _splash_. Jon hazarded a look at his wife. Her jaw was clenched and her gaze was cast upward at the towering bulk of the Red Keep perched high on the cliffs above them. He wondered, as the rowboat slid out into the bay, how it felt to leave a place she'd called home for as long as he'd been alive. Where Steffon, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen had been born and loved and laid to rest in turn.  
  
He took her hand in his and didn't let go until the rowboat pulled up alongside the ship anchored in the bay.

 

* * *

  
  
Jon watched the distant high chalk cliffs of Sweetsister slide by through the lattice-paned window of the cabin. Looking down at the yellowed, crumbling map spread out on the table, he traced the penciled-in course.  
  
A shrieking cry rent the air suddenly. "Oh, hush, little one," cooed Marna, the nurse Varys had found for the twins. Turning, Jon beheld Joanna's red, scrunched-up face. She stretched her little hand toward him and wailed anew.  
  
"Someone wants her papa," Marna observed, smiling at Jon as she bounced the babe on her knee. The girl had a kind of wholesome, simple beauty, with bright brown eyes set in a wide, freckled face and straight, sleek auburn hair. She spoke with a distinct Flea Bottom accent and couldn't be much older than he knew Arya to be now.  
  
_Arya_ , he thought to himself as he strode over to where Marna was seated and hoisted his daughter up into his arms. He'd received a raven from his little sister when they'd made port in Gulltown a little over a fortnight ago. She would meet them when they arrived in White Harbour within the week and escort them north to the Dreadfort. It was Sansa's by right, now, but she could no more bear to dwell under its roof than she could live with Cersei.  
  
"You spoil her," Cersei drawled from the bed, snapping her book shut with one hand. The fingers of her other hand were carding gently through Damon's dark curls where his ever-sleeping head rested on her lap.  
  
"Aye," Jon replied simply, a small laugh escaping him as Joanna reached up and seized a handful of his whiskers.  
  
Cersei's lips cracked into a smile. But it dissolved almost instantly. Looking at Marna, she said, "Leave us."  
  
Marna shot to her feet. Giving a curtsey, she shuffled out of the cabin, leaving Jon and Cersei alone with the twins. Jon swallowed around the hard, dry knot in his throat, rocking his daughter up and down to diffuse his rising tension.  
  
Cersei's flint-sharp gaze flayed him open. "You've been keeping something from me, Snow. I tire of your games."  
  
An almost worried noise burbled out of Joanna. Jon rocked her again in the hope of distracting her from the hostility. "In the raven Arya sent..." he began, trailing off. Clenching his jaw, he drew a deep, bracing breath through his nose. "Your brother won't join us at the Dreadfort. He's betrothed to Lady Brienne and will winter with her at Winterfell."  
  
"I see," Cersei said tightly. Pain swam beneath the surface of the words like a fish in a frozen pond.  
  
"I thought, if I spoke to him, I might change his mind," Jon confessed, his gaze wandering back to the window.  
  
"And what do you presume gives you the right to dictate his choices?" Cersei asked.  
  
Whispers had floated freely through the halls of the Red Keep in the wake of Daenerys's taking of the Iron Throne. _Queenlayer_ , they called Jaime Lannister; _brother-fucker_ , they called his twin sister. Jon didn't question the truth of the rumours, because he'd seen how Cersei's face twisted when she spoke of Jaime's flight north with Lady Brienne, and it was the look of profound heartbreak and betrayal that Ygritte had given him down the length of an arrow.  
  
"War is coming," Jon declared, meeting his wife's eyes once more. "I'll be away. And I might very well die. _For good_." He laughed nervously and flashed a fragile smile. "There'll be no one to drag me back from the black this time." Marshalling his resolve, he concluded, "I don't want you to be alone. Without a sense of home. Without _happiness_."  
  
Cersei's mouth thinned into a hard line. Her pale throat worked. "What do you know of my happiness, Snow?"  
  
"Only that I've seen too little of it," Jon returned, voice almost lost amidst the sighing creak of the ship.  
  
A quiet huff escaped Cersei, halfway between a sob and a scoff, and her lips bent into her familiar not-smile. Laying Damon upon the bed, she rose smoothly to her feet, drifted over to the table in front of the window. She poured herself a goblet of Dornish red from the slender pewter flask sitting on the tray beside the unrolled map. For a long moment, she simply stood there, sipping the wine and watching the white shores of the island roll past.  
  
Jon allowed himself to admire the proud line of back and the thin winter sunlight catching in the spun-gold of her hair.  It was a kind of treason, wasn't it, the way his pain and fury and pity had tangled together into something pure?  
  
"I love you," Jon said at last, little more than a breath. "Does that frighten you? I know it frightens me."  
  
Cersei's back remained turned, but she raised the goblet, took a prim drink. "Very little frightens me any more."  
  
"I should hate you. For what you did to my family. For what you did to _me_." He still couldn't bring himself to name what had happened to him: how he'd risen from their marriage bed that first night, pulled his robe around himself with shaking hands, and sat with his eyes fixed on nothing as her small council filed in to inspect the linens.  
  
"Mercy isn't a virtue, Snow. It's folly. Your late father learned that lesson the hard way."  
  
"Aye, it may be folly, but it bought your life all the same," Jon snapped.  
  
"For how long?" Cersei wheeled around, her gaze hard, piercing. "You are two-and-twenty. Your attachment will end."  
  
An agitated squawk issued from Joanna. Jon bounced her soothingly. "You gave me my children, Cersei."  
  
Cersei laughed, a bitter, broken husk of a sound. "Children cannot save me. Everything I've left of mine fits in a box."  
  
Jon's heart panged in his chest. His gaze darted to the golden casket on the night table on her side of the bed. Ornamented as it was with roaring, prancing lions, he'd wrongly assumed it was brimming with Lannister jewels. Cersei had raised two kings and a princess, and yet all she had to show for it was contained in that small, unassuming box.  
  
Closing the distance between them, Jon cupped his wife's face with his free hand, stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I won't let anything happen to the twins. And I won't let anything happen to you. I'll keep our family safe."  
  
"You can try, Jon Snow," Cersei said, her full lips curling into an endearingly skeptical smile.


End file.
